May He Rest In Peace
by something ugly
Summary: Farfie. Killing someone. Short. You might not want to read this if you're bothered by blood or violence.


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May He Rest In Peace  
**Author: **something ugly (something_ugly@rock.com)   
**Rating: **PG13 [Blood. It's Farfie, after all]

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Disclaimer: I don't own WeiB. Or Farfie.

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Author's note: This is what happens when I get bored in study hall. I've been told this is disturbing. Huh. Please review.

He made his way down the alley, moving silently through the shadows. Finally, he had managed to escape Schuldig's insufferable presence. He had spent the last three hours standing next to Schuldig in a stuffy room, ignoring some idiot man whom they were currently working for - he hadn't wasted his time on actually learning the man's name - as he blathered on about how important it was for them to protect him. After that speech, Farfarello was of the opinion that it would be better for everyone if he used the man for target practice. Schuldig, of course, had refused to allow it. Something about minimizing the number of client deaths. Crawford's words, coming from Schuldig's mouth. He couldn't stand it. 

The crisp, cool air was a welcome change from the muggy heat of the client's office. It slid along his skin, sending cold tendrils to every part of his body. He felt connected, more alert. Tonight was a good night for a kill. 

A voice trickled through the nighttime noise to reach his ears. Singing. A small, clear voice. A child. That was good. The singing was quiet, too quiet to make out the words. He sang very well, soft and sweet. God would mourn when the little voice joined those of the angels in heaven. Farfarello began to move in the direction of the voice. The child sat on a bench directly under a streetlight, the only lighting in sight. Farfarello halted just out of reach of the light and watched the little boy sing quietly to himself. He was reluctant to step into the light. He would be exposed, unable to see into the surrounding darkness. He glared at the offending streetlight and weighed the consequences. Stepping into the circle of light would mean exposure, but it was the only way to reach the child. The boy was perfect. He did not want to choose another victim. And he did not sense any others nearby... 

The child finished his song and began humming another. Farfarello watched his tiny doll face, his long dark eyelashes brushing against his pale porcelain cheek, his perfect little lips forming words that flowed together, a river of sound. Farfarello drew out a knife. His fingers tightened around the smooth hilt. There was no one else there. It was safe for now. He gave himself up to what his heart demanded and stepped forward into the light. It washed over him, harsh and bright, isolating him from his shadows. But he didn't mind, because the boy looked up at him, blue eyes burning feverishly, and nothing existed for him except for the circle of light and the boy it contained. The boy had stopped singing, and they just stared at each other in silence. The boy's soul was burning in his eyes, filling them up with brilliance. His life was trickling away in slow, small streams of light, escaping from the shell that tried to keep it in. He could see the beams clearly, pure and clean against the overpowering glare of the streetlight. Only once before had he seen someone who burned this brightly... 

__

Jei...what are you doing? 

I'm saving you. 

He reached out and touched one of the pieces of light. It burned into his flesh, disappearing, leaving no mark on his pale skin. The sensation reminded him of where he was, anchored him in the present. The boy watched him, and there was a deep understanding in his eyes. 

"Have you come for me?" The boy asked. He was shivering. 

"Yes." Their voices seemed to stay inside the circle of light, to be swallowed up before they reached the darkness. 

"I was hoping you'd come." The boy extended an arm, thin and pale. "Please...I'm so tired..." 

Farfarello reached out but stopped just short of grasping the boy's hand, keeping the hand that held the knife by his side. A little sigh of desperation escaped from the boy as he stared at Farfarello's hand so close to his own. 

"This is what you want?" He already knew the answer. How could it be anything else? But he wanted to stall, to prolong the beauty and pain of the boy breaking before his eyes. 

"Yes!" the boy whispered fiercely, as if he could push Farfarello's hand into his own with the strength of his word. 

He closed his fingers, felt the boy's warm hand in his own. He pulled the boy forward and he collapsed limply against him. He laid him on the ground beside the bench. The boy's eyes were closed. There were shadows in his face. 

"Open your eyes," Farfarello said. Vivid blue blazed forth once more. He wondered what the world looked like, seen through those eyes. Did darkness exist for them? The boy looked as if he was blinded by light. 

He ran the blade along the edge of the boy's chin, leaving a thin trail of blood. It welled up, slowly, and began to trickle down his neck. Farfarello caught a drop on his finger and tasted it. It tasted like...blood. It disappointed him. It should taste...different, this blood from the glowing boy. He picked up the boy's hand, studied it. He slid the knife between the joint where the smallest finger joined the hand and pressed until he felt it give. Dark eyelashes fluttered against pale cheeks. 

"Does it hurt?" he asked, laying the severed finger on the ground. 

"No," the boy said, sounding awed. 

No pain. One, two, three, four fingers joined the pile of dead flesh. They separated from the hand with a satisfying snap. 

No pain. He cut off the boy's shirt and carved a bloody cross into his chest, not quite deep enough to harm anything vital. He sat back and watched the blood flow. Faster, faster. Dark and human. Was this what the blood of an angel looked like? A low humming began in the back of his brain, throbbing and intensifying with the flow of blood. No pain. A rhythmic chant. 

"Can you hear it?" 

The cries of the angels. 

"No..." 

He cradled the boy's head in his lap. He used to tip of the knife to slice neatly through the delicate flesh of the ear. He tossed it aside, then went to work on the other one. Two bloody, useless lumps of flesh. The boy no longer needed them. Farfarello placed his hands on either side of the boy's head where his ears had been. The hot blood ran between his fingers. 

"Listen," he breathed. The noise in his brain intensified. Suddenly, with a gasp, the boy raised his fingerless hand, reaching towards something up above. 

"I hear them!" he cried. "They're screaming for me!" He began to shake. "I can see them..." His arm sagged weakly to the ground. 

Farfarello released the boy's head, setting it down on the dirty pavement. He licked the blood from his fingers. Blood, nothing more. It didn't burn as it should. He felt anger for the first time that night. What was he doing wrong?...No pain. There should be pain. 

He cut away the boy's pants below the knee, slid the knife beneath the kneecap and twisted. The boy stared blankly upwards. He pulled the knife out and stabbed it through the boy's thigh in a sharp, quick motion. He felt bone give and then the jar as the knife hit the pavement. Even the pavement gave way to the blade of his knife. A knife through the hand, a knife through the foot. The boy lay pinned to the ground, and his eyes never moved from the sky. "I can see them," he whispered again. They were getting closer, Farfarello could tell - a rustling noise in his ears. Rage stirred in him. They couldn't have the boy, not until Farfarello got what he wanted. He grasped the boy's untouched arm, twisted savagely until he felt the bone break with a satisfying crack. He brought the hilt of a knife down on the boy's shoulder, smashing his collar bone. He buried a knife in the boy's side and twisted. 

"_Can you feel it_?" he shrieked. 

The boy did not blink. A shiver ran through him, the first of the angels laying a hand on him. He was almost smiling. 

"No!" He grasped the boy's head in his hands, feeling one of the severed fingers crack beneath his knee. He slid the tip of the knife beneath the boy's eyelid. He could see the steel moving beneath the fragile skin. He cut the boy's eye from it's socket and pulled it out with his fingers, let it fall to the ground. The smile faded from the boy's face, but it was too late. He was already at work on the other eye, digging it from it's socket with his fingers. The boy started to scream. He tried to get up, but he was pinned to the ground. "I can't see!" he screamed. "Where are you? _Don't leave me here_!" The light streaming from the boy was flickering, fading. Farfarello held the struggling boy still and licked the blood from his empty eye sockets. It was only blood. He hissed, disappointment feeding his anger. The boy cried out to the angels. Farfarello grabbed the boy's tongue in his hand and cut it from his mouth. The screams turned to gurgles. He wrapped blood-slicked fingers around his knife and drove it through the boy's heart. He watched him thrash, searching for the angels. They were still there, but the boy was blind to them now. The noise was fading. They acknowledged their defeat. 

The boy gave one last sobbing breath, and his body went limp. Silence.

"I hate you," Farfarello told the corpse. 

One by one, he retrieved his knives, licked them clean and put them away. He smashed his fist through the boy's skull. It gave way, blood and brains smearing his hand. He stood up and stared down at the boy's body. The light was gone. A disappointment. Nothing special. They never were. He turned his back on the broken body and walked back into the darkness. He would get what he needed. Someday.


End file.
